


Dear Sam

by ANonsense



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Not as horrific as it sounds, Teenage Jim Moriarty, The Author Regrets Nothing, hence the t rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 08:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10185122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANonsense/pseuds/ANonsense
Summary: He still had a bottle in his hand when you left, Sam: dashed it against the door when you’d left, actually, splashing rum everywhere. Me and Davie were hiding at the top of the stairs, which is a ridiculous place to hide, really, but nowhere was safe, so we’d decided to listen instead. Of course, with Mum shut in the cupboard, we had no place to run.





	

Dear Sam,

 

Congratulations on your degree. Maths, was it? You never told me, but then you don’t tell me a lot of things. Do you even remember I exist, Sam? I’m your brother, Jim. Hello! Bet you thought you were rid of me. Bet you thought you were rid of both of both when you walked out: me and Davie. Rid of Dad; rid of Mum, too. Don’t blame you for that… but I was the one who actually _dealt_ with the problem, so forgive me if I can’t quite seem to see the ‘couldn’t cope’ excuse. There were many ways to cope, Sammy, and you took the easiest.

How old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen? Sixteen, I think. You’d just finished school. You thought you were _sooo_ clever. _Sooo_ prepared. You were going to leave and it would all be sorted. Sleep on friends’ sofas; get a job; make something of yourself… Work it all out, did you? Got a degree! That’s something…

Davie cried, you know. He’s an idiot. He was going to cry whatever happened, but I think it was understandable that night. Everyone was shouting. You were shouting, Dad was shouting; Mum was shouting, which she rarely does. Dad threw a bottle at the wall, remember? Malt Whiskey. Cheap stuff. Tasted like piss when I tried it and I couldn’t drink it all the way to the end like he could. No surprise there: I was only eight. Anyway, he threw the bottle and it smashed and that was the end of it: you ran to get away, because there’s no reasoning with him like that, and Mum hid in the cupboard under the stairs and locked the door – like that would stop him… but he is stupid when he’s drunk, I suppose.

Was stupid.

Present tense, sorry. I forgot.

I think you thought you were clever. There are other words for that kind of cleverness, Sammy. Give these a try: ‘selfish’, ‘cowardly’, ‘ego-centric’, ‘cruel’. He still had a bottle in his hand when you left, Sam: dashed it against the door when you’d left, actually, splashing rum everywhere. Me and Davie were hiding at the top of the stairs, which is a ridiculous place to hide, really, but nowhere was safe, so we’d decided to listen instead. Of course, with Mum shut in the cupboard, we had no place to run. The bathroom door key was kept on top of the door, remember? Too high for either of us to reach. Dad saw us, and you weren’t there, Sammy.

You weren’t there.

What are you going to do with a Maths’ degree, anyway? Didn’t you say you wanted to go into teaching? You could use us as a class model if you wanted: you could count to a hundred on us. All the ribs and the bruises and the scars… _(one, two, three, four…)_

Blood used to make Davie queasy, but he’s all business-like about it now. He’s fifteen and I’m fourteen and we’ve both got jobs in the big wide world, so he doesn’t curl up in my bed like he used to, but when he did – when we were still there – the sheets used to soak it all up and turn pink in the wash and get brown and crusty patches in the mornings.

Dad let _your_ bed out to friends. I didn’t know he had friends before that, but then, you know; he makes friends easily. Some friends stayed only half the night, made lots of noise, and then left. Others stunk the house up with aniseed smoke. Some were quiet and white-faced and had dark spots up their arms; they didn’t bother us. Others drank with Dad. I don’t think Mum had friends.

Anyway, it’s all irrelevant now. Even the stains are gone. Isn’t fire lovely?

I’m not going to pretend anything because you’re not going to tell. That’s a hint to burn this letter Sam, because, if you keep it, you’ll be very sorry.

Two people left the house that morning: me and Davie. Two people came back: me and Davie. Two people stayed. I think there might have been some crack addicts there as well at the time. One of them must’ve dropped a match…

But that’s over and done with. I’m busy now, with work. It’s an entrepreneur type venture: self-employment, you know. I made all the business cards myself.

Davie’s gone to Wales like he said he would: they have nice trains there, and he likes trains. I haven’t seen him in a while because I’m in London and that’s miles away.

Don’t visit me, Sam.

 

Your brother,

Jim

xx

 


End file.
